Accidental Meetings
by Truth and Chaos
Summary: Companion piece to Impossible Things. How Sherlock Holmes first met Naoi Edric. - Complete -


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mycroft Holmes or any other character there in.

A/N: This is a companion piece to my story **Impossible Things**. Written because my friend Fiona wanted to know exactly how rude Sherlock and Naoi were to each other the very first time they met.

For those that haven't read _Impossible Things_ (yet), this is set 12 years before the events of the story.

**For updates on other stories and/or old ones please visit my Author's page to view my twitter account.**

**TruthnChaos**

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Swish…plop

Sherlock Holmes had been in the middle of a long afternoon walk with no direction in mind when he heard it. Near enough to the very ends of his brother Mycroft's fairly large estate, the detective could not very well imagine that anyone would be out here at the same time he was. The likely hood would be…well it simply was not likely. The sky above told him it was late enough to be considered late evening. The first vestiges of night colored the sky a pale violet. In the distance the sun's dying light burned bright orange as it set.

Swish…plop

Ever curious he deviated away from the direction he had been going – completing a large semi circular pattern around the property – and headed toward the sunset and the tree line that disguised a decent sized brook. From what his brother had told him the brook was the border between Mycroft's estate and a farm that belonged to an immigrant Irish family. The brook, as far as it reached from one end of Mycroft's estate to the other, was part of the property.

Swish…plop

The low dip of heavy tree branches heeded his progress for only a moment as he brushed them out of his way. A moment later he stood at the bank of a babbling brook. Sand and mud sucked at the soles of his shoes, tree branches swaying in the summer evening breeze brushed at his back, leaves tickled the back of his neck. All of that should have been enough to distract him for several moments but none of it was. His mind was not so easily diverted.

Swish…plop.

The subject of his attentions, however, had not even noticed him. He. Sherlock's brow drew together as he tilted his head, watching the silent child's movements. She? The gender of the subject was indeterminate. Sherlock scowled to himself. He was not fond of androgyny. It prevented him from assessing things that needed to be assessed. What things he wasn't sure of. Yet.

Red hair, fiery in the dying sunlight, tied back, not cut short. Not absolutely indicative of gender. A thin frame, a light dusting of pale freckles over sun warmed skin. The clothing was that of a boy, but the white shirt and breeches did not sit properly on the subject's frame. The boy. Girl. Child was certainly not as tanned as he was himself, but she…he…the child…was warm skinned enough not to be entirely Irish. He…she…the child pulled the makeshift fishing pole out of the water. In a swift, practiced motion the stick with a simple string and a bit of deceased pink-grey worm on the end swung back and then forward into the water.

Swish…plop

That explained the sound.

"Mister," an accent that was not precisely a regional accent. He heard overtones of an Irish brogue and what sounded like a northern English. Blue-grey eyes, an unnatural color to be sure shifted from the running waters of the brook to him. She. He. _The child_ shot him a cocky half smile that only seemed to fuel Sherlock's mild frustration. "There a reason yer starin' at me?" Without waiting for him to answer, "Got some fish if ye were wantin' some."

The voice gave him nothing. It was an even pitch, neither feminine or masculine.

There were two ways he could come to a conclusion regarding the boyish girl, or girlish boy, before him. Sherlock decided to go with the simplest. "The brook isn't on your property," he said in the most stern tone he was able to adopt. It was easy enough. He was frustrated by his own inability to pin down the child's gender. "Those fish belong to the owner of the brook."

Now his cards were played. A girl, if the child was a girl, would offer to give back the fish and apologize. Women were simple enough creatures. Catch them red handed and apologies and offers to make the situation right would ensue. A boy, if the child was a boy, would grow angry, keep the fish and run away.

Blue-grey eyes hardened. The child pulled in the makeshift fishing rod and snarled out a, "Nosey self righteous..." the rest of the boy's mutterings were lost on the detective because of the distance.

Sherlock was only just congratulating himself on deducing the child was in fact a boy when she stood up. She. There was the proof of small round lumps on her chest only slightly outlined by the fall of her loose white shirt. The pants that did not fit her fell about her waist loosely were held up by two thickly woven ropes.

The detective's first semi-rational thought was that the girl would be pretty when she grew up, not beautiful per say, but pretty enough to turn heads. Once she grew out of her boyish stage that is.

The girl grabbed the line of deceased fish that had been sitting next to her and shot him one last pointed, angry, glare, "Why don't ye go jump off a cliff!"

Later, when Sherlock asked his brother if Mycroft knew that the family in the farm behind the estate had a girl child Mycroft had shrugged and told him flatly, "I thought the children were all boys."

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Yes, Naoi had an accent before she was shipped off to Aunt Ida in Ireland for finishing school. She is 14 in this story. She is 26 in Impossible Things.


End file.
